Of Brothers and Secrets
by KateThorne
Summary: It's a motel room like all the others in a town like all the others. But everything changes and it's life's cruel joke that it all looks the same. Oneshot! PreSeries! FirstTime! Weecest! Warnings for Underage and angst feels.


It wasn't a motel room that either had much reason to remember.

There was hot water, towels that were stained, but clean. A crack in the window by Dad's bed that whistled as the cold dry air from an Arizona winter torrented past. There was a space heater in the between the boys' bed and the bathroom, and so the brothers often found themselves sitting companionably in the crevice between the threadbare quilt and the faux plaster walls; Sam with a book in his lap and Dean looking over his head to the snowy HBO on the television set.

John was... somewhere. Not a hunt, something bigger. Dean knew, and maybe Sam did too. Long since learning that tantrums and yelling didn't even slow John Winchester down, Sam had adopted the tactic of simply pretending that he didn't know what was going on until it was forced upon him. And so, when John started taking more calls out of the room to the payphone by the liquor store Sam pretended not to see. When John started taking the pills to stay awake, Sam pretended he was taking a damn vitamin and didn't say a thing.

But he laid, facing the door, when John was out all night. He could pretend he didn't care until he thought no one was looking, but the poor kid didn't know that Dean was always looking. He couldn't keep up his act all the time, wasn't as good at it as Dean was, but only because he had never had to.

Sam ran a hand through greasy hair mindlessly as he read. The motel had cable, but no shampoo and Sam had run out of his from the dollar store in Texas. Dean loved his brother; he'd steal him any food or book in the world. But he already broke the bank for Sam's Christmas gift and he wasn't about to stick his neck out for Sam because the kid was too stubborn to use bar soap like Dean and John did.

The kid insisted on being different and it drove Dean nuts but impressed him none the less. At the very least, Sam was consistent. He insisted on doing the most difficult thing all the effing time.

There wasn't any school, so 'bed time' ended up being whenever Sam yawned and put his book down, then gathered the wrappers of their dinner (Cool Ranch Doritos and Moon Pies) to throw away. At which point Dean would weigh the idea of going out or staying in and possibly taking his 'little Dean time' in the shower, abusing the hot water since Sam started showering in the morning.

The desert lacked the moisture to create snow, but the icy wind was sharper and cut into Dean's face like glass the last few times he had gone out, making the frantic, rushed car sex almost not worth it. Not to mention the fact that Wenden, Arizona wasn't exactly booty central. There was one bar and one man for every homely, small town woman.

Sam climbed into bed and beat his pillow into shape, rolling onto his side and muttering a habitual 'good-night' that didn't necessarily need to be returned or heard and Dean leaned forward to get the television.

"No... It's ok." Sam said softly, sleepy and shy between the bedding. "You can, leave it on, if you want. Or, whatever."

Dean looked over his shoulder to his brother. John had been gone for six days. Two days longer than he said he would. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last; but Sam wasn't as good at pretending he didn't think about it.

So Dean left the TV on and headed into the bathroom. Turning the water as hot as it would go, he stepped into the stream and almost immediately grabbed his cock. It had been hardening since he stepped into the bathroom. Thank God for being nineteen; the motel had hot water, but not more then ten minutes worth so Dean didn't have time to waste.

He started stripping it, letting his mind whirl around to all the images that were more familiar than any real girl or woman had been; there was that porn star from Casa Erotica VII with the dark hair and the freckles, all the way down to her... it was blurry. Not tonight, then. The waitress from Madison, Georgia. Water blue eyes against her soft and honey colored skin. She had this tiny gap in her teeth, was so shy when he leaned in to flirt with her... a noise from to room next door made her face disappear like a tree or a town wizzing past in the Impala- too quick and too far away to really notice.

Ok, he had about three minutes tops before the water cut out. His hand was hurting and he was sweating from tugging so fast. This was embarrassing.

Anna Nicole. The big guns. Literally.

He tried to focus on the lace edges of her neglige. Feel her manicured hand on him... His hand was the only thing keeping things down there awake at all. Really, Dean. Pull youself together.

The room next door flushed their toilet and Dean was drenched in ice cold water, thus sparing him the trouble.

"Fucking _fuckers" _Dean snarled through the paper thin wall. He was a bit extra aggressive- still half hard and all.

Dean sighed and decided to call is quits. Even Jordan was allowed to have an off day every once in a while. He toweled off and went back into the room with Sam, walking by the TV as he changed into some boxers.

For whatever reason, Dean had never slept in the empty bed when John was out. It was an odd habit, that Dean only dwelled on in passing. But it probably was a rooted in some stubborn of hope John would show up in the middle of the night and he could look over and see him there: whole, big, indestructible and drooling a bit as he was a serious mouth-breather at night.

Something would have to change, though, sooner rather than later. They were a family of three large men and two queens wouldn't cut it for much longer. Sammy was getting bigger, now, his most recent growth spurt putting him just under Dean's nose- too big, now, to toss around and Dean almost missed it. They'd never been a particularly hugging family- a result of no female softness in their world of hard metal guns and rocky mattresses.

But once, Dean could grab Sammy unaware- yell 'vampire!' or 'stranger danger!' and swoop him off his feet. Sam would give his due diligence and bat at him, demanding to be let down. Dean could ruffle his hair, give his chin a light knock. Feel in his arms- certain, undeniable proof that Sam was alive and near because that was the only way Dean knew for certain he could breathe easy.

Dean missed that little Sammy a bit. This... teenager demanded to be called Sam and regarded all physical contact with a slight air of suspicion. Dean loved Sam, or Sammy, but he missed the little brother he knew better.

But -all extended limbs and bony sides—Sam was sleeping curled into himself, leaving more room for Dean than he deserved.

The TV had kept playing as Dean showered, and Sam hadn't changed the station. The fight Dean had been watching had eased into a show about a yacht. Dean snuggled into his pillow and tuned his dozing attention to the moving pictures. Nothing very exciting was happening; a grey haired man with his shirt unbuttoned walked below the deck where a much younger woman in a red dress and pearls sat.

Dean had turned to volume down, so he couldn't hear the words the captain said to his... wife? Daughter? He didn't much care as his eyes began to close as the woman fell dramatically back against the bed, an arm thrown over her face.

He wished Sam was awake so Dean could tease him about his soap operas.

The man stepped forward and roughly grabbed the hem of her skirt, shoving it up to show her wet, shaved-

Dean was suddenly very awake. Both above and below deck.

He cast a guilty look at Sam because he should totally change the channel. Sam wasn't old enough... well, Dean had been younger when he lost his virginity. Besides, Sam seemed very deeply asleep right now.

And Dean couldn't _waste _free soft-core porn, right?

Another tentative glance at Sam before Dean threw caution to the wind and slid his hand into his boxers. He was still keyed up from the shower orgasm that wasn't and it was so, _so _much nicer in the bed. Warmer, more relaxing and soft.

Dean closed his eyes and threw his head back, biting his lip as he felt the warm waters of his climax start at his toes, hot and cold shivers under his skin. Fuck, yes, so much better in the bed with... ok, ignore that little brother. Masturbate _around _thoughts of little brother.

But, as usual, Sam couldn't make anything easy.

"Dean? What are you watch-" Sam half turned to see Dean, guilty with his hands beneath the covers. Sam's eyes widened, "_What are you doing?!_" he hissed.

"What's it look like?" Dean hissed back.

It wasn't Sam's fault he couldn't come in the shower, but it sure felt like it. His balls had been waiting for forty five minutes and after everything they did together, all the things that were too close that they never talked about.

This might as well be one of them too.

Dean skin was still prickling, feeling colder now with the disappointment of being denied again.

"Just, shut up Sam." Dean said, feeling his cock again, rubbing it with the backs of his fingers. "I just need... just shut up."

Dean really wouldn't if Sam got all butt hurt about it but his brother gave him an awkward look over his shoulder before rolling back onto his side. Away from Dean as Dean broke all the boundaries in the book and Sam just _let _him.

Stroking his cock again made Dean actually gasp in long, _long _delayed relief and Sam's shoulders tensed beside him as his brother started watching the TV as well.

Maybe just to mess with him but mostly because it felt so good Dean could _explode _he groaned again, curling his toes in the sheets.

Sam's shoulders hunched up again and Dean was about to be emancipated from his whole reproductive region as he slowed his jacking. He really didn't want to upset Sam over... Sam's shoulders twitched and Dean leaned up on his elbow to see Sam's hands inside his sweatpants. Both of them. One was flexing with the rhythm Dean knew too well while the other reached further back than it had any right to.

Dean couldn't stop the laugh that escaped him.

Sam whipped his hands out of his sweats and turned violently pink along his whole neck.

"Oh, shit." Dean said, but he was grinning, "Sorry, Sam. I didn't mean to..."

"Don't _laugh _at me—" Sam huffed, sounding for all the world like the indignant eight year old that Dean could lift off the floor. "I was just surprised but you- laughing is _mean"_

Sam sounded close to humiliated tears.

Dean really hadn't meant for that.

"No, Sam, I was just surprised. I didn't know you were... into that."

"'m not gay." Sam defended.

"Hey, no judging. Not saying you are, just..." Dean took a deep breath. He was supposed ot give Sam the sex talk. It had been heavily tacitly implied by their father who still got gruff and clumsy if they had a job in a strip club or a working woman tried to solicit them outside of one of their dubious motels.

Dean should have said something before now. He was just a bad brother in all the worst ways tonight.

"Doesn't mean you're gay, Sam. Just means you're... different. Freak in the sheets, my baby brother." Dean teased lightly. It would be easier if it was a joke. It always was.

"Don't call me _freak_ Dean. Don't be a jerk."

"Wow, are you sensitive or what? It's a compliment, Sammy."

"Yay." Sam said flatly. "I am a freak at school. You and Dad treat me like some foreign weirdo and now I'm a _freak in the sheets _too. Just... just stop talking Dean. Just, don't talk about it."

If Sam didn't want to talk about it, Dean had seriously done something wrong.

He took his hand and rolled Sam towards him, so his brother couldn't hide behind his string bean shoulders and dirty long hair. Too late, Dean realized his hand was still sticky wet. With precome.

Sam went pliantly as Dean turned him, his eyes falling their point of contact. When Dean whipped his hand back, there was still a glistening wet spot that caught on the flickering light of the TV.

And Sam's breathing was stuttering, each one shaky. There was no hiding it, not with the way his skin stretched too tight over his body, showing every knobby bone and joint the boy had. Nothing was hiding.

Sam's nipples were a sort of tannish, eggplant color. They were hard. Cast shadows on his chest like tiny twin mountains over his olive skin.

Dean realized he was staring at Sam, too long. Too... meaningful.

It didn't occur to Dean until years later that the look wasn't lust. Oh, lust was there. Hiding in the way Dean's fingers twitched in his balled up fist. The vein in his neck that was fluttering, running pump after pump of his blood through his body, trying to keep up with his skittering heart. Yes, that was lust, but there was other crap in there too that Dean got confused and he just stared at everything that had ever made him feel worth a damn, lying out on his back, looking at the wet echoes of his fingers on his chest.

A vein in Sam's neck was pumping the exact same blood, at the exact same pace. Their bodies weren't built to react this way to each other.

They weren't supposed ot be sharing a rock lumpy mattress in some forgotten corner of Arizona. They weren't supposed to be doing this.

Sam leaned up on his elbows and waited for Dean to take the lead because that was how it had always been.

"Sam..." Dean cast around for a joke. Something, anything, any kind of shift in the weight of the air in the room would be welcome.

Sam put his weight on one arm and touched Dean's chest where Dean had touched him. His fingers were wet too. So many things, details to repress later.

Like the way it smelled when Sam shifted again, letting the blanket pool beneath his lap, revealing the head of his cock, peeking up at him. The way Dean's shoulders shook as he saw Sam's cock, pink and shaped like something in a museum, virtually hairless.

"Sam... I..." There wasn't a joke there.

Sam didn't break eye contact from him as he took his hand back, even as he trailed his fingers down his own, overstretched torso, to his cock. Sam gripped himself and gave a single, deliberate stroke, watching the movement in the reflection of Dean's eyes.

The TV played in the background, ignored. Their whole lives there had always been something in the background, a school, a girl, a hunt but it faded to black, easily forgotten. Sam was stroking with purpose, now. His stomach was fluttering upon ever down stroke and his eyes were blinking rapidly with pleasure, staying open, staying on Dean.

Sam didn't have a joke. He didn't have a disguise for it, no turning back on it. So much braver than Dean who always needed an out, a joke to take back or a drink to blame. For better or for worse, Sam wasn't disguising like Dean did. He never had.

Sam had never needed to.

Dean leaned back onto his knees, gripping himself by his dripping cock in his own hand and matching Sam, stroke for stroke, as his brother panted and keened beneath him. Sam was going to come first, Dean had never even seen Sam's tells in this sort of thing but Dean could practically taste it in the air.

Sam's eyes squinted shut, almost in pain, his heart beat almost visible through thin, drum-tight skin.

Dean placed his hand, one single hand over Sam's hip; it felt just as spindly as it looked but it was so _warm_.

Sam's eyes shot open as his dick spilled gush after gush of release, landing along Sam's stomach and chest. Glistening on him like some sort of hedonistic dew on a statue.

Dean kept his hand on Sam's hips as he came, aiming his come onto the bedding, between Sam's legs on either side of him.

The TV kept playing, a commercial for mouthwash. A car in the parking lot pulled out onto the street.

Everything was different, but it was life's cruel joke that it all looked the same.

Dean reached over Sam to grab some Kleenex from the bedside table, tactfully left there by motel management. He couldn't look at Sam as he wiped the mess from the bed, leaving a wet spot on Sam's side.

He couldn't look at his brother but he could feel his brother looking at him. Without regret or shame.

Those were for Dean. He had started it.

He waited for Sam to fllow suit and start wiping himself clean so they could get to it and spend the rest of their lives pretending this had never happened.

But Sam didn't make it easy; his arm over his head, eyes lazy and loving as he watched Dean implode. Dean was about to get up and shower again, the cold water a perfect penance when Sam touched his arm sleepily.

It was just a finger along his forarm, only from elbow to midway to his wrist but Dean was rooted to the spot.

"Don't." Sam murmured. "Stay, or, whatever."

Dean laughed. Hollow and harsher than Sam had ever deserved.

"Jesus Christ, Sam. This is so fucked up."

"Don't care." Sam murmured, looking away from Dean finally. Still not as good at pretending. Not like Dean was. Dean could pretend it never happened. Dean could pretend he never wanted it to happen again.

So that way Sam wouldn't have to.


End file.
